


Drag It Back Under Control

by theoldgods



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Character Study, Drunk Sex, Dubious Consent, F/M, One-Sided Attraction, Time Skips, Underage Sex, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-05
Updated: 2015-04-05
Packaged: 2018-03-21 04:37:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3677769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theoldgods/pseuds/theoldgods
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lysa Tully first bests Petyr when he’s a drunken child, and although he wins in the end, her influence stubbornly refuses to fade.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Drag It Back Under Control

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sternflammenden](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sternflammenden/gifts).



> This was written for sternflammenden/housecreepy for the 12th round of got-exchange on LJ, for the prompt "it's beyond my control." The teenaged sex is largely as Lysa suggests in ASoS, which is to say of drunken, dubious consent—if that's a squick for you, please be aware. (There is no Petyr/Sansa sex, in case the tagging is slightly confusing on that point.)
> 
> Many thanks to the got-exchange community, as always!

Petyr doesn’t want to boast, but he’s damned good at being drunk, for a first-timer. It’s been two, maybe three hours, and while the world is rushing around him, making Cat’s hair shine ever brighter in the gloom, his heart is finally light. He’s never drunk this much this quickly, but then again, he’s never before been rejected by Catelyn Tully, whose kisses were so forthcoming as long as they were only pretend.

He stumbles nonetheless on his way to the privy, and that proves to be his downfall, at least in the eyes of Brynden Tully. The Blackfish, as he’s taken to calling himself of late, has no real love lost for the son of a minor lordling, least of all one who is too close to Lord Tully’s two precious daughters, and he’s waiting outside the hall when Petyr attempts to reenter.

“I think that is enough ale for you, Master Baelish.” The Blackfish’s hands are sturdy as he wraps them around Petyr’s shoulders and begins walking him toward the exit. “Let me help you out, so that you do not fall again.”

“Yes, my lord,” Petyr agrees, smiling at the ceiling, as a voice in the back of his head screams something incomprehensible even to him; he assumes that, like most things, it’s related to Cat. The Blackfish’s grip is painful as they ascend the stairs to his small bedchamber, but Petyr’s bitterness dies when, out of the corner of his eye, he sees a flash of burnt auburn.

Sure enough, he’s been alone with his mattress and a chamberpot for no more than five minutes when the door creaks open and she enters, her long hair hanging unbound past her shoulders. Her face is milk-white and pinched, far moreso than usual, and even though she’s entered his bedchamber without invitation, she cannot meet his eyes with her own.

“You deserve better,” she tells the rushes underfoot, and that’s when he processes, with the part of his mind that never does anything aside from think, even when the rest of him is drowning in ale, that this isn’t _her_ , exactly, isn’t Cat. When she moves toward the bed, he crawls further back onto it, never taking his eyes off her. “You deserve ever so much more, my poor sweet Petyr.”

_I do_ , he agrees silently, focusing on how her hands twitch, so unlike those of her sister. 

They’re all right nonetheless when they’re wrapped around him, fumbling at Petyr’s breeches. They’re even better when they’re _there_ , right up against his cock, which is flopping uselessly beneath her vibrating fingers.  Her breath is hot on his neck as she fumbles with her skirts, and although the world spins around them in ever-tighter circles, Petyr gasps in delight when her bare cunt rubs against him.

“I’ll be so good, you’ll see, you’ll see,” she whispers again and again as his cock finally begins to fill with blood, pulling his drunken thoughts southward. “You’ll see—ah!”

She slides right onto him, and then it’s his hips undulating, her breathing harsh above him as she moans softly with each thrust, his skin _burning_ where they touch.

_Oh, Cat, my Cat,_  he thinks as the pace picks up. _I knew you would see it at last, I knew you would come, I knew._  


It’s a fantasy, of course, not much different from any of the ones he spins each time he puts his own hands down his breeches. He knows this in his thinking brain, floating high above the drunk part of him that is thrusting frantically up, up, up into her cunt, mentally making all the little replacements that steady her hands, soften her face, make her hair shine just a little bit more. It’s beyond his control, nonetheless, until he finally comes with an uncontrolled thrust that dislodges her almost completely.

“Oh, Petyr, sweet Petyr, yes,” she murmurs as she fully disentangles herself and lies down next to him. Her hair cascades over his arm, and he feels himself, as if from a distance, shudder. He closes his eyes instead of coming up with anything to say.

Some time later, Petyr opens his eyes to find that it’s still dark outside and that an auburn head is resting on his chest. For a moment he cannot breathe for the joy that fills him, until he remembers her voice mumbled into the rushes, how bony her fingers were. His happiness leaks from him as she stirs, slowly lifting her head to meet his gaze.

“Petyr, I must go.” She kisses his chin, his neck as she slowly sits up, eventually placing her lips on his.

The touch makes bile flood the back of his throat, makes one of his legs jerk uselessly before he drags it back under control. His head is beginning to ache more fiercely than it ever has before, but he must say something, he knows, to put the situation to rights, reassert himself in the light of what he already can sense is a drunken escapade he wasn’t nearly as in control of as he first thought.

When she eventually breaks the kiss he finds the words, and he lets himself smile, dopily, a drunk, infatuated virgin.

“Thank you, Cat.”

And oh, it’s worth it, for the way her body finally, blessedly, goes completely still above him. He remains grinning like a halfwit as her feet find the floor and she disappears, a rigid, pallid doll in the moonlight.

* * *

Nothing irritates Petyr quite as much as his inability, for the first several days after Marillion pushes Lysa Arryn out of the moon door, to avoid her ghost. He _dreams_ of her, of their two sweaty couplings under the roof of Riverrun, and in his dream he is eager and willing, thrusting as she screams how very much she wants to give him a baby at last, how she’ll give him a son named Hoster or a pretty girl named Sansa. 

_It’s Alayne_ , he thinks, stupidly, upon awakening. He’s fallen asleep while reading again, reviewing laws and trial procedures for their murderous singer, and the smell of paper in his nostrils is unpleasant. He sits up as quickly as he can, sneering at the page that tears.

_It’s Alayne, and she’s not yours_ , he tells Lysa again as he gets to his feet. In the predawn air, only a few servants are moving around the Eyrie; he pads down the hall, accompanied by Marillion’s desperate wailing songs, to the kitchen, where he’s befriended the cook with a few salacious tales of his skills with Alayne’s mother. The cook herself is nowhere to be found, but Alayne stands barefoot over a platter.

“I would offer you all the lemon cakes in the world, sweetling, if I knew they would make you never sad again.”

She does not startle, and Petyr’s chest swells with pleasure. In that moment all the hair dye and drab clothing in the Vale cannot hide her parentage, the thick strain of Cat that runs through her ramrod-straight spine and up to the slow, sleepy turn of her head in his direction. He feels heat at his groin, just a touch, and smiles.

“Some sorrow is surely necessary, Father, to keep us humble,” Alayne murmurs, setting down her half-eaten slice of lemon cake. “Forgive me if I’ve woken you. Shall I fetch the cook?”

“Let someone in this poor household sleep if they can,” he says, approaching her and her desserts. “I’ll help you instead, shall I?”

Her shoulders freeze as he leans over her for his own slice of lemon cake. It’s barely noticeable—she is good and only getting better the longer she spends as Alayne—but he feels it nonetheless. Worse, for a moment all he sees is pale Lysa in the dark, frozen in horror and offense above him.

Petyr wants nothing more, in that moment, than to take her head in his hands and whisper her name into her ears, lest _he_  forget that she is Cat and not Lysa. He contents himself with kissing the top of her head instead and breathing in the scent that he’s decided is Cat’s, all Cat’s, that touch of her that no time or appearance can erase.

“It’s been hard, I know, poor sweetling,” he says eventually, once they’ve finished their lemon cake. “We will take care of that dreadful singer soon enough and then life will go on.”

“I miss…” Alayne sighs, then, and shakes her head. “She threatened me. She _did_. But I miss Lady Lysa. And I miss my mother.”

“No more sorrow, sweetling,” Petyr tells her, speaking so that he won’t begin shivering, burrowing his face into her hair. “It’s too late for both of them, poor women, but not for us.” He wraps his arms around her, and for a moment it’s Riverrun and he’s hand in hand with Catelyn and Lysa Tully in the godswood, one girl on each side of him, their laughter indistinguishable in the spring air. “You are your mother’s daughter. Take it from me, who knew them both so very well: they could not be more different from one another.”


End file.
